


A New Kind of Life

by Petrichora_Vellichor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Crowley Lives (Supernatural), Crowley deserves to be loved and that's exactly what he gets, Episode Fix-It: s15e20 Carry On, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Gen, In this house we let characters talk about complex feelings and emotions, Jack is Crowley's Nephew-lim, POV Crowley (Supernatural), Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Episode: s15e19 Inherit the Earth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:42:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29101209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petrichora_Vellichor/pseuds/Petrichora_Vellichor
Summary: What if, when Sam and Dean break into the Empty, Cas isn’t the only one they save? OR, the one in which Crowley gets the ending (and love/closure/family) he fucking deserves.
Relationships: Background Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Crowley & Castiel, Crowley & Crowley's Hellhound Juliet (Supernatural), Crowley & Dean Winchester, Crowley & Jack Kline, Crowley & Miracle the Dog, Crowley & Rowena MacLeod, Crowley & Sam Winchester, background Castiel/Dean Winchester, minor unrequited Crowley/Dean Winchester
Comments: 141
Kudos: 146





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FeaRauko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeaRauko/gifts).



> As usual, endless thanks to FeaRauko for beta-ing and helping me talk/work through the more difficult sections - I couldn't have written this without you in my corner. 💙

“Crowley! Wake up, you son of a bitch, _wake up!”_

Crowley opens his eyes to Dean shaking him hard by the shoulders. Which is strange: the last thing Crowley remembers, he was dying, alone and forgotten in a parallel universe. 

He isn’t there anymore. Instead, Dean is kneeling over him in a dome of golden light beyond which everything is dark, and for a brief, absurd moment he’ll chastise himself for later, Crowley thinks he’s somehow ended up in Heaven.

Then he glances past Dean and sees Sam with an exhausted-looking Castiel slumped against him; next to them is a younger man Crowley doesn’t recognize, but his eyes are molten gold, the same color as the dome surrounding them all. The amount of raw power emanating from the golden-eyed man makes every one of Crowley’s hairs stand on end, and not in a good way. 

No, definitely _not_ his idea of Heaven.

Crowley snaps his gaze back to Dean. “What—” he begins, but Dean cuts him off, hauling him to his feet.

“No time for questions!” Dean yells, and it’s only then that Crowley registers the _roar_ coming from beyond the dome: it’s as though they’re standing in the eye of a hurricane as all around them things blow apart. “Come on, we gotta go!”

And then they’re all running, the dome of light moving with them like a shield as wispy black wraiths crash and burn against its perimeter and somewhere unseen, a hideous voice howls in rage.

*****

Once they’re safely back in the Bunker war room, Dean takes hold of Castiel and, along with the golden-eyed man—whose irises have faded to a soft, concerned blue—ushers him off in the direction of the infirmary, promising gruffly as he goes that he and Crowley will talk later. 

Patience, however, is a virtue, and Crowley isn’t feeling particularly virtuous—especially not after seeing how tenderly Dean and Castiel looked at each other as Dean wrapped an arm around the angel’s waist and led him from the room. The sight had left a bitter taste in Crowley’s mouth, one he does his best to ignore. There will be time for _that_ later; right now, he needs answers, and he’s not waiting on Dean in order to get them.

He crosses his arms and fixes Sam with an expectant glare. “All right, Moose,” he says, "out with it: what in God’s name is going on?”

Sam snorts, looking tired. “Um, yeah, about that...” He gestures towards the map table, then heads over to the liquor cabinet. “You...might wanna sit down.”

Crowley arches a brow, but he does as Sam suggests. Sam joins him a moment later and, after pouring them each a drink, spends the better part of the next hour telling Crowley all that’s transpired in the three years— _three years_ —Crowley’s been dead.

Which is, it turns out, rather a lot. 

Lucifer’s spawn survived his birth and is none other than the golden-eyed man Crowley saw when he woke up; his name is Jack, and for all intents and purposes, he considers Castiel to be his father. 

An alternate version of Michael got a hold of Dean for a while, until Jack killed Michael at the cost of his soul, then, in a soulless rage, killed Mary. 

God killed Jack. All Hell broke loose. Rowena, who’d apparently survived Lucifer’s last attempt to kill her, died to fix it and was now Queen of Hell. 

Billie brought Jack back to kill God. Dean tried to kill Billie, so Billie tried to kill him. Castiel managed to take Billie out by admitting his love for Dean, at which point the Empty took Castiel—

 _Of course,_ thinks Crowley, the bitter taste in his mouth returning with a vengeance. _Of. Bloody. Course..._

The brothers had stormed the Empty not for him, but for Castiel. Good, noble, righteous Castiel, the wayward Angel of Thursday who’s been hopelessly in love with Dean for longer than Crowley has known him...and whom, it seems, Dean has finally admitted to loving back. Sam and Dean had saved Castiel because they loved him, because _Dean_ loved him, but Crowley...They’d probably only rescued _him_ because they’d figured they owed him for saving their denim-clad arses that day at the lake. 

Now, as Crowley half-listens to Sam talk about defeating God, he glowers down at the map table and wishes they hadn’t bothered bringing him back at all, because it’s one thing to die unloved; it’s another to have to live that way. Crowley’s done both, and he knows which he prefers. At least in the Empty, he’d been at peace. 

“Crowley? Hey, you okay?”

He looks up to see Sam regarding him from under a furrowed brow. _Bollocks..._

“Naturally,” Crowley says, leaning back in his chair with a dismissive smile. “That’s quite a tale, Moose. It sounds like you and Squirrel have outdone yourselves these past few years, even managed to pull one over on God; bravo. I’m sure Lucifer’s spawn will make a spectacular replacement: he is, after all, three.”

Sam’s eyes harden. “Jack’s nothing like Lucifer; he’s good, and he’s got us to help him, and Amara—”

“Oh, Amara! Now _there’s_ a recipe for success if I’ve ever heard one: God’s evil sister and her Satanic great-nephew with billions of raw souls at their disposal. How could that _possibly_ go wrong?” Crowley scoffs, shaking his head. “Honestly, there’s just no learning with you lot, is there? You just keep humming the same damn tune, then acting surprised when the notes turn sour, and it never even occurs to you to _pick. A new. Bloody. Song.”_

The frown on Sam’s face intensifies. “This is different. Jack, Amara, they’re on our side, and now that Rowena’s in charge of Hell—”

Crowley snorts. “Right. Care to wager on how long that lasts?” Then, at the look of sudden wariness on Sam’s face, he rolls his eyes. “Calm down, Moose; that wasn’t me plotting a coup. I have no plans to try and take back the crown.”

“You don’t?”

“Why on earth would I?” Crowley takes a sip of brandy, grimacing slightly at the flavor—for all the changes the past few years have wrought, the Winchesters’ abominable taste in liquor remains tragically consistent. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but I hated Hell as much as the blasted place hated me. If Mother thinks she can do better, she can have it.” 

They sit without speaking for a moment; then Sam clears his throat. “You know,” he says quietly, “Rowena regrets how things ended between the two of you.”

Crowley stiffens, a stab of anger piercing his gut. “No, she doesn’t.”

“She does,” Sam insists, and how anyone can look so stupidly earnest is beyond Crowley’s ability to comprehend. “She told us so.”

Crowley scoffs. “And you believed her?” he demands, left hand closing into a fist at his side. “You know, for the longest time, I thought you were the smart one.”

Sam sighs. “Crowley...Look, I’m not saying Rowena’s perfect—”

“She’s quite literally the Queen of Hell, Moose.” Crowley manages to keep his voice level, but his fingernails are digging into his palm. “I’d say that’s about as far from perfect as anyone can get.”

“—but I think you two should talk.”

Crowley’s hand starts to bleed. 

“I mean it,” continues Sam, when Crowley says nothing. “When I was a kid, my dad...he wasn’t there the way he should’ve been, and we fought a lot, and there were times I felt like I hated him, but when he died...” 

A multitude of emotions flicker across Sam’s face in rapid succession, too fast for Crowley to name them all, but the final one, the one Sam looks back at him with, is regret. “When he died,” Sam continues, “I didn’t care about any of that. And maybe I should have. I _know_ I should have. Believe me, I tried. But I just...kept coming back to the fact that what I was feeling, the good and the bad, I’d never get to actually _say_ it to him, and if he was somehow sorry for the bad, that was something I’d never get to hear.”

Crowley’s anger flares white hot; his hidden palm is slick with blood. “If you have a point,” he growls, “I’d encourage you to come out with it.” 

“My _point_ ,” says Sam, curtly, “is that you actually have a chance at some closure, and I think you should take it. For your own sake.”

Crowley clenches his jaw, looks away. “For my own sake,” he echoes, softly. As if his and Sam’s pain is the same. As if Rowena is capable of causing anything but. “Tell me, Moose: since when do you or your imbecile of a brother actually give a damn about my own sake?”

He raises his gaze to stare coldly at Sam who, for the first time since they sat down, seems at a genuine loss for words. Crowley snaps his glass down on the table and stands. “Thought as much.”

He shoves his hands in his coat pockets and turns to go—where, exactly, he has no idea—only to nearly crash headlong into Dean, and suddenly, Crowley’s anger turns to outright fury, because at the end of the day, it _didn’t matter._

It didn’t matter that Crowley had gone up against Hell and his mother and even his own better judgment for Dean more times than he could count. 

It didn’t matter that the two of them had shared a bed when Dean was a demon, doing extraordinary things to triplets that Crowley would have kicked out in a heartbeat if he’d thought he could get away with it.

It didn’t matter that Crowley had sacrificed his life to save Dean and Sam and the whole bloody _world._

_None_ of it mattered, because for all the times Crowley had chosen Dean, Dean had never once chosen him. Then again, Crowley thinks, maybe it’s his own fault for expecting any different, his due comeuppance for stupidly believing he deserved to be loved. It doesn’t matter; he knows better now.

“Hello, Dean,” he snarls. “Come to look in on me now that you’ve seen to your angel? Well you needn’t have bothered; I was just leaving.”

Dean frowns, crossing his arms. “The hell do you mean, you’re leaving?” 

“I _mean_ get out of my way.”

“No.”

“And why not?” Crowley demands, voice rising. “Am I your prisoner? I’ve already told your oaf of a brother that I’ve no interest in causing any sort of trouble in Hell, so if that’s what this is about, then you can just—”

“Damn it, Crowley,” snaps Dean, “no, that’s not what this is about; it’s about where are you even gonna _go_. You got a place somewhere we don’t know about?”

“I’ll _find_ one.”

“Or,” Dean counters, “you could cut the crap and just stay here.”

 _That_ catches Crowley off guard, but only for a moment; he gives Dean a hard look, determined not to let the surprise show on his face. “And why on earth would I want to do that?”

“Because you know it’s the smart thing to do,” says Dean, face impassive, “and last I checked, you were an asshole, not an idiot.”

And it’s not that Crowley doesn't know full well that running off half-cocked into a world whose dynamics have fundamentally changed is naive at best and suicidal at worst—that isn’t what makes him nearly scream in rage, because he knows it’s patently true. No, the infuriating thing, the truly _mortifying_ thing, is that Dean knows him well enough to know that he knows it, and that if Crowley does leave, he’s only going to prove Dean right. 

The thought is more than Crowley can bear; still, if he doesn’t get out of this room right _now,_ he’s going to start shouting—at Dean, at himself, at everything. There are other, less crowded places in this godforsaken Bunker, and it’s past time he went and found one. He’s not going to give Dean the satisfaction of watching him break.

Crowley pulls his fury tight and close, stepping forward into Dean’s space and glaring up at him with every bit of defiance he can muster. “Funny,” he sneers, “because last _I_ checked, you were both.” 

And he vanishes before Dean can respond.

*****

Crowley finds an unoccupied room at the far end of the hall and decides to claim it as his own for the time being. He bolts the door and turns to collapse onto the bed...only to freeze dead in his tracks.

His mother is standing in the corner. As Crowley gapes, Rowena takes a step forward, face pale and incredulous. “Fergus?” she whispers. “Gods, is it really you?”

Her voice snaps Crowley out of his shock, and he narrows his eyes. “Mother,” he growls, the word like poison in his mouth. “What do you want?”

“Sam told me they were going to try and get you back,” Rowena says softly, eyes roving over Crowley’s face as though seeing him for the first time, “and I wanted...I needed to see if they’d done it, if you were all right.”

Crowley glares, making a mental note to have a _word_ with Sam about this particular indiscretion. “Well, you’ve seen me. Now get out.”

Rowena recoils, and if Crowley didn’t know any better, he’d swear his words actually hurt her. “You’re angry,” she says. “You’re angry, and you’ve every right to be, but if you’d just let me explain—”

“Explain _what?”_ Crowley snaps. He clenches both hands into fists, ignoring the burn in his left palm. “What could you possibly have to say to me that I’d want to hear? You _hate_ me, remember?”

“I _love_ you—”

Crowley barks out a laugh. “Really? Have you forgotten the last time we saw each other? You left on a bus after you sent my son to his death, all because you wanted to watch me ‘suffer the loss of a child’, of _my_ child!” He stumbles towards her, half-blind with rage. “Tell me, Mother: did losing _me_ bring you any suffering, or were you just sad you weren’t there to collect three pigs in exchange?”

Rowena looks as though she’s been slapped. “Of course I suffered! Do you have any idea what I went through trying to get you back? I faced Death herself; I _begged_ her to return you to me, but she wouldn’t do it! Ask Sam, ask Dean!”

“They’ve already told me,” Crowley grinds out. “It doesn’t matter.”

“How can you say that?” Rowena is crying now, tears rolling freely down her face. “Of course it matters! I did it because I missed you, because I _love_ you!”

“You’ve never loved me a day in your life.”

“That isn’t true! I did love you; I do!” Rowena takes another step forward and reaches out a hand. “If you could just find it in your heart to forgive me—”

 _“Forgive you?”_ Crowley snarls, and it’s all he can do not to spit in her face. “You don’t get to ask for my forgiveness, not after any _one_ thing you’ve put me through, not after _everything!_ What was it you said to me that day at the bus station, your parting words? ‘Who better than me to crush your shriveled heart’? At least I _had_ a heart, once; you never did.”

“Fergus—”

And Crowley explodes. “GET OUT!” he screams, seizing the lamp off the bedside table and hurling it at his mother with all his might...only to watch as it flies right through her and crashes into the wall.

And then Rowena’s gone, just like she always is, and Crowley’s alone, just like he always is. He stands in the middle of the room and stares hollowly into empty space. “Astral projection,” he says, quietly; it always had been one of his mother’s favorite tricks. “Of course.”

He spends the rest of the night warding the room as many ways as he knows how, determined not to let his mother or anyone else get the drop on him again.


	2. Chapter 2

Days go by. Crowley remains in his room, keeping the door locked and stubbornly ignoring any attempts by Sam or Dean to gain entrance, although he does spare a breath to shout that if they want something to do, they can go ward the rest of the Bunker against further intrusions from certain Hell witches. In the end, the brothers leave him alone, and Crowley tells himself he’s glad. It nearly works; he is, after all, a very good liar, even to himself.

Then comes a newer knock, a softer one, followed by a voice Crowley recognizes as belonging to the new God-Kid, Jack: “Hello? Mr. Crowley? Are you still in there?”

And maybe it’s because he’s bored—it’s certainly not because he’s lonely— but Crowley decides to answer. “Why are you knocking?” he snaps. “Can’t you just blow the bloody door off its hinges?” 

A beat of silence; then: “I...could, but it wouldn’t be very polite.”

_Wouldn’t be very—?!_ Crowley gapes at the door; dear God, the boy really _was_ Castiel’s son. Eventually, Crowley asks, “What do you want?”

“Do you know how to play chess?”

Whatever Crowley is expecting, it isn’t that. He goes to the door, unlatching the bolt and opening it a crack. “What?”

“Do you know how to play chess?” Jack repeats and holds up a battered old set. “I found this in the storeroom a while back, but I don’t know how to play, and neither do Sam or Dean.”

And it’s...strange. Crowley knows, logically, that this is the golden-eyed man he saw in the Empty, the supremely powerful being who is not only Lucifer’s spawn but also the new God; he _knows_ this...yet somehow, as Jack stands before him and smiles almost shyly, Crowley can’t help but think Jack looks rather...small.

He frowns, opening the door wider. “What about Castiel?” Crowley demands archly. “Surely _he’s_ familiar with what it means to be a pawn.”

Unfortunately, the jab appears to go right over the boy’s head. “He knows what all the pieces are called,” Jack says, nodding, “but he’s never played before. Have you?”

Crowley has. He actually rather likes chess, although it’s been some time since he’s faced a worthy opponent. As King of Hell, he’d of course been able to order other demons to play with him, but most of them were so abysmally bad at it that he’d stopped bothering after a while. “Why do you ask?” he says, instead of answering. 

“Will you teach me?”

The request catches Crowley off-guard; he can’t help but feel it’s some sort of joke. “You want me,” he says slowly, “to teach you how to play chess.” 

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Oh.” Jack’s face falls; he looks down. “Okay. Sorry for bothering you; I’ll leave you alone.”

Jack turns and begins to walk away, and the sight really shouldn’t bother Crowley...but it does. He feels a sort of painful pressure building in his chest, and suddenly, the thought of being alone any longer is downright unbearable. _Bollocks..._

“Wait!” Crowley calls, stepping out into the hallway as Jack turns to peer hopefully over his shoulder. “Just...wait. I’ve changed my mind. The answer is yes.”

Jack beams. “You mean it?” 

And he looks so bloody _happy_ that Crowley has to focus his gaze on Jack’s shoulder; looking too long at that smile feels like staring into the sun. “I said as much,” he grumbles. “What more do you want?”

“Can we play in the library? The lighting’s better there.”

Crowley flicks his gaze back to Jack’s face, fully prepared to say no, they’ll play in his quarters or not at all...but Jack is giving him these blasted, begging eyes that Crowley would bet good money were learned from Sam, and what _actually_ comes out is, “Lead the way.”

*****

They take to having daily lessons in the library. Crowley demonstrates various openings and defenses, and when they progress to actual matches, he shows no mercy, checkmating Jack’s king in what feels like a record number of moves. 

Still, what Jack lacks in natural ability, he makes up for with eagerness to learn and ample appreciation of Crowley’s knowledge, which is...actually rather nice, if Crowley’s being honest with himself; he can’t remember the last time anyone appreciated him for anything. 

Sam, Dean, and Castiel look in on them from time to time, although Crowley pretends not to notice them. Once, he catches a glimpse of a woman Jack says is called Eileen Leahy. 

“She’s Sam’s girlfriend,” Jack explains brightly as he takes one of Crowley’s pawns with his remaining bishop. “Sam brought her back from the dead after a hellhound killed her.”

_Ah. That explains the dirty look..._ Crowley frowns, moving a knight to capture Jack’s bishop. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Sam, years ago, that he hadn't known who Eileen was when he lent a hellhound to the British Men of Letters, and besides, _they_ were the ones who’d decided to sic said hellhound on the woman, not him. It’s not his fault the bastards had apparently thought it sporting to use an invisible weapon against someone who couldn’t hear it coming. If Crowley had wanted to kill Eileen, he would have at least had the decency to use a weapon she could _see._ Still, what’s done is done, and Crowley does his best not to dwell on it. The topic of hellhounds is, after all, rather painful at present, given that he still doesn’t know what’s become of Juliet. 

Not for the first time, Crowley curses himself for losing his temper with his mother before having learned the fate of his favorite hellhound. Was Juliet still in Hell, where he’d left her? Had she been well-cared for in his absence? What if one of his adversaries had harmed her out of spite? What if his _mother_ had harmed her out of spite? Crowley has no way of knowing, not unless he wants to contact his mother again or just show up in Hell, and neither option inspires optimism. Rowena could very easily lie to him over the phone, and setting foot in Hell feels far too akin to walking into a trap: enough of Crowley’s enemies have probably survived the past few years that he’d be stabbed the moment he got through the gates, and for what? Only to learn that Juliet had been butchered years ago? At least as things currently are, he can still hold onto the chance, however slim, that Juliet is alive. If only there were some way to _know_ …

_Go on then, universe,_ Crowley thinks savagely, _give me a bloody sign._

No sooner does the thought form than Crowley hears the click of paws against the Bunker's floor. He freezes, hardly daring to believe...but his hopes are abruptly dashed when a moment later, a tan, scruffy-looking mutt who is neither Juliet nor a hellhound enters the library. The dog pauses when it catches sight of him seated across from Jack at the table, then growls.

Jack looks over and smiles. “Hey, boy, it’s okay,” he calls soothingly, reaching a hand down to get the dog’s attention. “This is Mr. Crowley; he’s a friend. Come say hi.”

To Crowley's surprise, the dog scampers forward, apparently willing to take Jack’s word on the matter. It stops next to Crowley’s chair and sniffs him curiously until Crowley reaches out and hesitantly pats its head, at which point it starts wagging its tail and lets out a friendly sort of bark. The sound fills Crowley with a sense of unexpected warmth.

“When did you lot get a dog?” he asks, glancing back at Jack as the dog lies down at his feet.

“A little over a week ago,” Jack replies. “Dean found him after Chuck made everyone disappear. His name is Miracle.”

“Miracle,” Crowley repeats, looking down at the dog, which yawns back at him, apparently settling in for a nap. “Of course.” 

After they finish their lesson, Crowley starts to return to his room, only to hear Miracle trailing after him into the hall. He turns to regard the dog with a frown.

“If it’s treats you’re after,” Crowley says, “I haven’t got any.”

Miracle cocks his head, seeming to consider him for a moment, then pads over, tail wagging and eyes bright. “Woof.”

Crowley arches a brow. “You don’t take no for an answer, do you?”

“Woof.”

“Right.” Crowley sighs. “Well, come on, then,” he says, turning and continuing the rest of the way to his room, Miracle trotting alongside him. “You’re no hellhound, but I suppose you’ll do for company.” 

And to himself, with grudging approval: _Well played, universe. Well played._

*****

More days pass. Crowley spends most of his time in his room, leafing through books borrowed from the Bunker library with Miracle curled up at the foot of his bed. The dog comes to visit him more often than not, scratching insistently at the door until Crowley lets him in. Having him around doesn’t make Crowley’s anxieties over Juliet fade away, but it does lessen the sting of her absence, if only a little. 

Jack also stops by with increasing frequency, and Crowley honestly still doesn’t know what to make of him. Lucifer’s blood flows in the boy’s veins, and by all accounts, that should make Jack terrible beyond reason, a vicious, manipulative creature whose only goal is to bring about the downfall of mankind in the most horrible way imaginable.

Instead, Jack sits cross-legged on Crowley’s bed and talks cheerfully about _Star Wars_ or whatever other interest has his attention that day, and his only vice seems to be an insatiable sweet tooth. During one of his visits, he asks about Crowley’s life before they met, and there’s something so maddeningly sincere about the way he does it that Crowley finds himself telling Jack more than he means to, about himself, about Hell, about his mother... 

By the time he finishes, Crowley feels raw and a little embarrassed at having said so much, but Jack just smiles softly. “It’s okay, Mr. Crowley,” he says. “We can be more than the people we come from; my dads taught me that. We can choose to be good.” 

Crowley isn’t so sure about that, at least not as far as he himself is concerned. His soul is about as damned as a soul can get, and besides, his choices have a nasty habit of blowing up in his face. Still, it’s...a nice thought, if nothing else. 

He’s still thinking about it later that night, long after Jack’s gone off to Heaven for a bit to do whatever it is he and Amara do up there. Crowley’s sitting in the dark kitchen having a cup of tea—cheap stuff that comes in a bag, unfortunately, but at least there’d been a kettle—when Castiel appears in the doorway, an almost-silhouette against the soft glow of the hall light, and peers in at him through the darkness.

Crowley stares stonily back. Apparently, his assessment of the shift in Dean and Castiel's dynamic had been correct: Castiel is barefoot, wearing a t-shirt and sweats that were probably once Dean’s or maybe still are. Crowley can practically smell Dean’s scent on the clothes even from where he sits, and the low-quality tea does nothing to chase the bitterness from his mouth. Who would have thought that all it would take to tear away whatever final shred of heterosexuality Dean Winchester had been clinging to all these years was a deathbed love confession followed by a romp in the Empty? Not that Crowley cares a whit about _that;_ he doesn't, not even a little bit, not at all.

“Hello, Castiel,” he says darkly. “Out for a stroll? You should try the dungeon; from what I recall, it’s lovely this time of night.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t know,” he says evenly, “having never spent the night there.” Then, before Crowley can think of a suitable comeback, Castiel gestures at an empty stool on the other side of the table. “May I?”

Crowley shrugs. “This is your home, not mine. You don’t need my permission to do anything.”

“Even so, I’d like to have it.”

“Then consider it had. I’ll take my tea elsewhere.” 

Castiel frowns. “There’s no need for that.”

Crowley lets his eyes linger on Castiel’s shirt, on _Dean’s_ shirt, then snaps his gaze back to Castiel’s face. “Not for you, perhaps.”

Silence. Crowley is hyperaware of the clock on the wall, ticking out each passing second as they stare each another down, and he half hopes Castiel will charge, practically dares him to. Crowley’s not stupid—he knows his odds against an ordinary angel aren't particularly good, let alone a former leader of garrisons—but at the moment, he doesn’t care: worst-case scenario, Castiel kills him and he goes back to the Empty. Maybe if Crowley's lucky, he’ll actually get a funeral this time.

Eventually, however, Castiel’s shoulders relax, and he sighs. “You should know,” he says, quietly, “I bear you no ill will over our past grievances.”

Crowley bristles; for a second, he considers getting up and throwing the first punch himself. He isn’t sure what Castiel is playing at, but whatever it is, he’s not in the mood for games. “Of course you don’t," he growls. "They all worked out in your favor.”

Castiel regards him carefully. “You’re referring to Dean.”

“I’m _referring_ to everything!” Crowley snaps, nearly shattering his cup as he slams it down on the table. “Haven’t you noticed, Castiel? Your choices are lauded, held up as grand examples of what one does _for love,_ and mine?” He lets out a mirthless laugh that comes out closer to a sob. “Mine end with me on the business end of an angel blade, dying for a world where I’m not even missed, not by Dean or anyone else.”

No sooner does he say the words than Crowley feels like he can’t breathe. Which is stupid, because he doesn’t _need_ to breathe, hasn’t for centuries, but the feeling’s there all the same. The place his heart would be if he still had one aches; it’s as though a well-healed scar in his chest has been sliced wide open and now Crowley’s choking on all the blood. He blinks back the bitter tears he can feel prickling at his eyes, staring fixedly down at the tabletop and wishing it would swallow him whole. 

Eventually, he manages to get himself under control, and by the time the choking feeling subsides, Crowley is more exhausted than angry. Maybe Dean should have left him in the Empty after all, he thinks tiredly; it would have saved a good deal of heartache. 

Through it all, Castiel remains silent; when Crowley finally looks up at him, he’s surprised to be met with something strangely akin to pity. Ordinarily, it would be infuriating, but right now, Crowley just can’t find the energy to give a damn; he slumps forward over the table and sighs. “What is it you want, Castiel?” he asks listlessly. “You came here to say something, so by all means, say it. There’s nothing you can take from me that I haven’t already lost.” 

For a moment, Castiel lingers on the threshold; then he steps into the dark kitchen and sits across from Crowley at the table. Crowley waits, expecting to be told off...but when Castiel speaks, his tone is surprisingly, solemnly gentle. 

“I wanted to thank you,” he says, “for the interest you’ve taken in Jack. What he’s been going through lately...facing Chuck, rebuilding Heaven...it’s been a great deal of change very suddenly. He’s trying so hard, and Sam, Dean, and I are supporting him as best we can, as is Amara, but it's still an incredible burden for a child to bear.” Castiel smiles sadly. “Especially when it’s so easy for others to forget that he’s a child.”

As he listens to Castiel speak, Crowley thinks back to that day in the Empty, at the cosmically powerful golden-eyed being who shielded him, shielded all of them, from the surrounding darkness. Jack is powerful in ways Crowley can only begin to imagine...but he’s also _more_ than that. He's the boy who knocked timidly on Crowley's door and asked to learn chess, the boy who sits on the edge of Crowley’s bed and talks to him and smiles in delight when Miracle chases his tail. He’s curious and well-mannered and kind and—

_And God,_ Crowley realizes with a start; bloody hell, when had he grown so _fond_ of _God?_

“But, as I was saying,” Castiel says, snapping Crowley out of his thoughts, “the time you’ve been spending with him, treating him like he’s anyone else, giving him space to just be himself...it’s been good for him.” A pause, then: “ _You’ve_ been good for him. And while you and I have had our differences—”

Crowley can’t help it; he snorts. “That’s putting it mildly,” he says, and Castiel actually cracks a smile before continuing:

“—and while you and I have had our differences, Jack’s happiness takes precedence over all of them. He’s my son, and you matter to him.” He looks at Crowley intently, then adds, in a tone of absolute certainty, “And he would miss you if you were gone.” 

The weight of Castiel’s words nearly knocks Crowley to the floor. He’s never mattered to anyone before, and now...now he matters to _God_. Crowley swallows; he doesn’t know what to say.

Castiel seems to understand, though. They sit in silence, and it’s not exactly _amicable,_ but it’s not strained, either. Like for the first time since Castiel entered the kitchen, there’s enough space in the room for both of them.

Eventually, Crowley clears his throat. “There’s still some water left in the kettle,” he says, “if you’d like a cup of tea.” Then, because he doesn’t want to appear _too_ agreeable, he gestures despairingly down at his cup and adds, “although what passes for Earl Grey according to Winchester tastes is, unsurprisingly, questionable at best.”

And Castiel, to Crowley’s surprise, smirks. “Leave that to me,” he says, rising and heading over to the cupboard. “I know where Sam hides the stash Rowena gave him for Christmas.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "When I suggested you take on the Mark of Cain, I didn't know this was going to happen. Not really. I mean, I might not have told you the entire truth. But I never lied. I never lied, Dean. That's important. It's fundamental. But...there is one story about Cain that I might have...forgotten to tell you. Apparently, he, too, was willing to accept death, rather than becoming the killer the Mark wanted him to be. So he took his own life with the blade. He died. Except, as rumor has it, the Mark never quite let go. You can understand why I never spoke of this. Why set hearts aflutter at mere speculation? It wasn't until you summoned me...no, it wasn't truly until you left that cheese burger uneaten...that I began to let myself believe. Maybe miracles do come true. Listen to me, Dean Winchester: what you're feeling right now—it's not death. It's life— **a new kind of life**. Open your eyes, Dean. See what I see. Feel what I feel. And let's go take a howl at that moon."
> 
> —Crowley to Dean, 09x23 "Do You Believe in Miracles?"  
> ***********************************************************************

The following evening, there’s a knock on his door. “Crowley? Hey, you in there?”

Crowley looks up from his book. He hasn’t spoken to Dean since that day in the war room, when they’d all returned from the Empty. From a tactical standpoint, it’s been very easy: all Crowley’s had to do is keep largely to his room during the day and save visits to any common spaces for the late night hours. This is the first time in a good long while Dean’s made it a point to seek him out alone, and it’s that more than anything that makes Crowley decide he actually wants to hear what Dean has to say.

Still, no point in making it easy on the bastard. “That depends,” Crowley calls back, aiming for nonchalance. “What have you brought me?”

“Ha ha. Open up, asshole,” says Dean, but the epithet contains about as much malice as the _bitch_ he occasionally lobs at Sam. “We, uh. We need to talk.”

Crowley arches a brow; is it just him, or does Dean sound nervous? He sets his book aside and shifts to sit on the edge of his bed. “It’s open.”

Dean enters, and Crowley sees that he was right: Dean does indeed look nervous, perhaps even guilty. He nods sheepishly in Crowley’s direction as he closes the door behind him.

“Hey,” Dean says, smiling slightly, and the gesture stirs a painful kind of longing in Crowley’s gut. Looking at Dean has always felt to Crowley like reaching for something without knowing what it is he’s grasping at or why, the way a weed arches without thinking towards the sun. It’s maddening in a way Crowley doesn’t have words for, because he knows, in the way he supposes a weed does, that the light isn’t there for his benefit; experience has shown him that much.

And yet, for as much hurt and anger Crowley’s felt because of Dean, he’s also realized that he just...can’t find it in himself to hate Dean, not in any way that lasts. They’ve been through too much together, and maybe none of it mattered to Dean, but it matters to Crowley. He wishes it didn’t, but it does; it always has. And he can no more deny that than he can the sun.

But he can’t very well say all that to Dean, so he pushes his thoughts aside and schools his features into a neutral expression. “Hello, Dean,” he says evenly, rising to stand with his hands in his pockets. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Dean reaches up to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck. “You, uh. You settling in okay?”

Crowley snorts. “Surely you can do better than that. Go on, let’s have it.” He takes a step towards Dean and flashes a smirk. “I promise I won’t bite unless you ask me to.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well...That’s kinda what I came to talk to you about.” He gestures at the desk next to the bed. “Mind if I have a seat?”

Crowley shrugs. “Make yourself at home.”

“Thanks.” Dean walks over to the desk and turns to lean against it, not quite sitting but also not quite standing. Crowley stands next to the bed, waiting.

Eventually, Dean clears his throat. “So, uh. Cas said the two of you talked—”

“Oh for the love of—Is _that_ what this is about?” Crowley grumbles; just how much of their conversation had Castiel felt the need to share? “Allow me to save you some time, then. You and your long-suffering Angel of Thursday have my blessings, for what they’re worth. Slow clap, mazel tov, etcetera, etcetera. If you like, I could even pull a few strings, see if I can get you Hell as a venue for the wedding.” He smiles darkly, adding, “Although based on recent events, your influence there probably exceeds my own.”

He expects his words to get a rise out of Dean, to throw him off kilter so their conversation is easier to manage.

Instead, Dean just raises a brow and says mildly, “So you and Rowena still aren’t talkin’, huh?”

 _Still aren’t—?!_ “Really?” Crowley sputters angrily. “That’s all you have to say?”

Dean chuckles. “Nah, just figured I’d let you finish first.”

“Ever the gentleman,” Crowley sneers.

“I try.”

“Well, _try_ to get to the bloody point!”

“You really think I didn’t miss you when you were gone?”

And whatever barb Crowley was about to hurl dies on his tongue. He opens his mouth, then closes it, shifting awkwardly under Dean’s level stare. Eventually Dean sighs; he pushes up off the desk and moves to sit on the edge of the bed, patting the mattress next to him. Crowley sits down without a word.

“Listen,” Dean says, once Crowley is settled, “I don’t know how much Sam told you, but you weren’t the only one we lost that night. Cas died, Lucifer made off with our mom, Kelly didn’t survive the birth, and Jack bolted after I took a shot at him. Which...yeah, in hindsight, I’m not proud of, but that’s where I was at the time.” Dean looks down at his hands. “It wasn’t good. If Sam hadn’t stepped up and been a dad, things with Jack woulda turned out different, and not in a good way. If it’d been up to me, if I’d known how...I probably woulda killed the kid.”

Crowley swallows. He tries to think what he would have done if his and Dean’s places had been reversed, if _Dean_ had died that day instead of him, and comes to only one possible conclusion. “To be perfectly honest,” he says, quietly, “I’d have done the same.”

Dean snorts softly. “Yeah, maybe, only you were too busy offing yourself to keep Lucifer locked over in Apocalypse World. Man, you don’t even know how huge that was, do you?” Dean looks up at him then, earnest. “You think everything would be the way it is now if Lucifer had gotten his hands on the kid before we’d figured things out?”

Crowley can only stare back, stunned. He’d sacrificed himself to thwart Lucifer; that his death had also made it possible for Jack to grow up in the Winchesters’ charge, free of Lucifer’s poisonous early influence, and thereby helped shape who Jack was, who _God_ was...It’s honestly never occurred to him until now.

“Anyway,” Dean continues, when Crowley says nothing, “then Jack brought Cas back, which we didn’t even know was possible. Thought maybe it was just a fluke, but we didn’t have time to really think about it because we had to go get our mom back, and then there was all the crap with Lucifer, so we had to deal with _that_ , and then...” Dean trails off, his jaw tight.

A protective sort of rage boils up in Crowley on Dean’s behalf. Sam hadn’t gone into all the gory details during his explanation, but Crowley knows enough. “Michael.”

Dean inhales steadily, nods. “Yeah. Yeah, that. And then...after…” He sighs. “Jack lost his soul and killed Mom, and I damn near killed _him_ , and then everything with Chuck...Man, it was just non-stop. Then we finally beat Chuck, and with Jack all souped up, we had a way into the Empty, and hell yeah, we were gonna get Cas out, but the plan was always to look for you, too. Oh come on, don’t look at me like that,” Dean says, frowning at Crowley’s shell-shocked expression. “You’re a royal pain in the ass, and there’ve been plenty of times I wanted to stab you in the face, but you think that means I don’t give a damn what happens to you? Like it or not, man, you’re family, and we don’t leave family behind, not when we can help it.”

Crowley studies Dean carefully, looking for the lie...and not finding it. Then, that means...Is he really...?

“Family,” murmurs Crowley, experimentally. “You know, I’ve never had much luck with that word.”

Dean gives him a sad sort of smile. “Yeah, me neither. Not the one I was born to, anyway, 'cept for Sam. The one me and him made, though…” His smile turns genuine. “That one’s pretty damn awesome.”

They sit in silence, neither speaking for several moments; then—

Crowley clears his throat. “Can I ask you something, Dean?”

“Shoot.”

“That first day, after you brought me back, Sam said I should talk to Mother, said she has...regrets.”

Dean regards him thoughtfully. “You thinkin’ about giving her another chance?”

“I honestly don't know _what_ I’m thinking,” Crowley admits. “There’s a lot of bad blood there: hers, mine, both of ours. When I saw her here, in this room, she said she’d missed me, that she _loved_ me, and...”

Crowley feels his throat tighten, and he doesn’t know how to say the rest: that for all he hates himself for it, for all the times it’s blown up in his face, for all the horrible things Rowena has done to him—

“You don’t know if you should believe her,” Dean finishes quietly, “but you want to.”

Crowley sighs. “It’s stupid, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not,” Dean says firmly. “It’s not stupid to want to be loved, not by family: that’s kinda how it’s _supposed_ to be. The stupid part is that it doesn’t always go that way, and then we gotta deal with the fallout.” Dean hesitates, then adds, “And...and sometimes that means we think we don’t deserve love when we do, and other times, it’s people sayin’ they deserve our love when they don’t.”

Crowley mulls that over. “Does _she_ deserve it, do you think?”

“From you?” Dean shakes his head. “Man, that ain’t for me to say.”

 _Bollocks_ , thinks Crowley, barely managing to suppress a groan of frustration; if only there were a way to know which decision was the right one ahead of time...“How did _you_ decide?" he asks after a moment. "With your father, I mean.”

Dean looks taken aback, and Crowley thinks perhaps he shouldn’t have asked; but before he can change the topic, Dean sucks in a breath and says, “Look, my father was an obsessed bastard. He left me and Sam alone for weeks on end, and when he was around, he was more of a drill sergeant than a dad. Some of the shit he pulled...” One of Dean’s hands closes into a fist. “It’s not the kind of stuff you just...forgive.”

Then Dean lets out a slow breath, and the fist relaxes. “Thing is, though, a lot of the crap he put us through, raisin’ us the way he did...He was tryin’ to protect what was left of his family, and...and I _get_ that, you know? I’ve done a lot of really messed up shit for the same reason, for family. Doesn’t mean I forgive him, it’s just...complicated.” Dean sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. “Like, _really_ freaking complicated. Honestly, I’m still kinda trying to figure it out. But, yeah...all that to say, I don’t know if Rowena deserves your love or whatever else you wanna give her. She’s done a lot for me and Sam, helped us save our mom and Jack, and then her whole swan dive into Hell and all that, but when it comes to the two of you...That’s something you gotta decide for yourself.”

Crowley studies his hands. His left palm still bears thin scars from that day in the war room, when Sam had told him Rowena had changed and Crowley had gripped his fist tightly enough to draw blood. He still isn’t sure he believes his mother is actually capable of being anything other than what he's always known her as. Maybe she isn't, and if that’s the case, then she doesn’t deserve his love. Crowley can live with that; he has his entire life. If Sam was right, though, if his mother _has_ changed...that’s something Crowley needs to see to believe.

And there it is, Crowley realizes: he needs to see her.

“I think,” he says, after a moment, “that I’ll meet with her and hear what she has to say, and if I don’t like it, I’ll tell her to bugger off, this time for good.”

Dean gives a hum of approval. “Sounds fair to me." He claps Crowley on the knee and stands. "Okay, then, I’m gonna go hit the hay. Lemme know if me or Sam can help with the Rowena thing, okay? You don’t gotta deal with her on your own.”

“I will,” Crowley says; then, as Dean’s about to leave, “and Dean?”

Dean looks back, hand on the doorknob. “Yeah?”

And Crowley once again feels something stirring in his gut, but this time, it isn’t longing, but gratitude, gratitude that he has Dean in his life and gratitude that, at the end of the day, everything they’ve been through together, the good and the bad, it matters to Dean, too, and that's important. It's fundamental.

“Thank you,” Crowley says, and means it. “For everything.”

For a moment, Dean regards him in silence; then he smiles. “Yeah. You too.”

He slips out of the room and leaves Crowley alone with his thoughts, which are...actually rather optimistic. For the first time in a long time, Crowley feels _alive_. It’s a new kind of life, one with family, one where he matters, and Crowley doesn’t know for certain what it’s going to bring, but he knows he wants to see it, experience it, eyes wide open.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, Crowley and Jack enter the library for Jack’s daily chess lesson to find Sam and Eileen hunched over a pile of books at the table nearest the doorway. Crowley takes a breath he doesn’t technically need, steeling his nerves. _We can choose to be good..._

“Jack,” he says smoothly, “be a good lad and go set up the board, will you? I’d like to have a word with Sam’s charming guest.” 

Sam's eyes are on him in an instant. There's a quiet _click_ as Sam's knuckles tighten around the book he's holding, followed by the sound of his foot sliding across the floor to nudge Eileen.

Eileen glances up from her work, looking first at Sam, then over at Crowley, and bloody hell, if looks could kill, she'd have him dead on the floor. Crowley doesn’t miss the way Eileen's grip tightens around the pen in her hand; in fact, he’s fairly certain she’s already plotted out at least three different places to stab him with it. 

Crowley inclines his head in a gesture of polite greeting. “Hello, Eileen. I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced.”

“I know who you are,” Eileen says icily, and Crowley thinks that perhaps he underestimated the number of already-plotted stabbing places, “and unless the next words out of your mouth are _I’m sorry,_ you can—”

“I’m sorry,” says Crowley, without preamble, and the silence that follows is absolute. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sam stiffen, though whether it’s in anger or impatience or something else, Crowley doesn’t know: Eileen is all but boring into him with her gaze, and he doesn’t dare look away. 

“You’re sorry,” Eileen repeats, slowly.

Crowley nods. “For the hellhound. The British Men of Letters asked for one, and I obliged; I didn’t ask what for. The first time I heard your name, you were already dead. It wasn’t personal. So...yes. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Eileen’s expression is inscrutable. She continues to regard him carefully, rubbing her thumb over the pen in her grasp, until finally, she blows out a slow breath and sets the pen down. “Okay,” she says, and though she still looks wary, Crowley notices a slight drop in her shoulders. “I mean, don’t get me wrong: we’re not friends, and I still don’t trust you, but...thanks, I guess.”

“You’re welcome.” Then, deciding the smart thing to do is bow out before his luck expires, he adds, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my pupil awaits,” and, with a final nod, hurries over to the other table.

Jack is positively beaming. “I told you,” he whispers as Crowley slides into his seat. “Eileen is nice! I think you two will be friends.”

“Doubtful,” Crowley murmurs, but at least Jack’s pleased with him. When the boy had knocked on his door earlier and told him that Eileen was with Sam in the library, Crowley had suggested postponing their lesson, but Jack had insisted it would be a good chance to make amends, and blast it if Crowley has yet found a way to deny Jack anything he asks for. If the boy weren’t already busy being the new God, Crowley muses, he’d make a hell of a crossroads demon. 

They begin their lesson. Jack is getting better; he actually manages to give check once, and Crowley feels a swell of pride for him even as he easily captures the offending piece. With enough practice, Crowley has no doubt that Jack will eventually be able to give him a run for his money, maybe even compete in tournaments. Now that, thinks Crowley, would be something to see: God and his coach, the former King of Hell. Jack’s opponents would never know what hit them.

Eileen leaves just as Jack’s lesson is coming to a close, but Sam lingers after she’s gone, glancing over every so often. Crowley pretends not to notice and tells Jack to go on, he’ll put the board away since Jack set it up. Once Jack is safely out of earshot and it’s just Sam and Crowley left in the room, Crowley decides they might as well get on with it, whatever it is. 

“Something on your mind, Moose?” he asks mildly, snapping the chess set closed and rising from his chair. “Because if it’s a snogging you’re after, pass. These days, I make it a point not to get involved with anyone whose partner has access to things that could kill me and knows how to use them.” 

The look of dry exasperation Sam shoots him is well worth it. “Very funny,” Sam retorts, before his expression softens a bit. “I just...wanted to say thanks. For apologizing to Eileen, I mean. I know it probably wasn’t easy.”

Crowley blinks; he’d been expecting hostility, not approval. He masks his surprise with a cavalier shrug. “Easier than telling her that you and your brother allied with the man who set the hellhound on her, I presume.”

A pained look crosses Sam’s face. “I—yeah. Ketch was...complicated.”

“You _have_ told her about all that, haven’t you?”

“Of course,” Sam says, and there’s enough anguish in his voice that Crowley believes him. “I told her everything.”

“Good. Glad to see you lot have finally learnt a thing or two about keeping secrets from one another.”

They’re quiet for a moment, and Crowley thinks that perhaps their conversation is over, but just as he’s about to go— 

“While we’re on the subject of apologizing,” Sam says, carefully meeting Crowley’s eye, “I’m sorry about Rowena showing up in your room. I told her we were going to the Empty to get you and Cas back and that we’d let her know how it went, but then she kind of just ambushed you as soon as we got back, before I’d even had a chance to call her, and...yeah, I’m really sorry.”

The genuineness of Sam’s admission catches Crowley off-guard. “Yes, well,” he scratches the back of his head and looks away, “Mother never was one to sit and wait for news she could go out and get herself.”

Sam’s lips twitch in a wry sort of smile. “Well, she can’t astral project into the Bunker anymore, not with the warding we laid down. Also, um. I don’t know if Dean told you, but he, uh, _talked_ to her for a while on the phone that night.” 

The surge of affection Crowley feels is almost overwhelming. “No,” he manages. “He didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure Rowena knows not to try anything else unless she hears from you first.”

Crowley sighs. “Which, incidentally, might be sooner rather than later. I’ve decided I’ll hear her out.”

“Really?” says Sam, sounding pleasantly surprised. “That’s...great. Do you want me to take down the warding, or…?”

Crowley shakes his head. “If I’m to do this, it’ll be in person. I don’t want her flickering out the moment it all becomes too much, not before I’ve had my say.” 

“So, you’re thinking of going to Hell?”

“I don’t see any alternative,” grumbles Crowley. “She can’t come here physically, not without a host, and I’ve a feeling _that_ particular option is against house rules.”

“You would be correct,” Sam says firmly, though not unkindly. “Maybe there’s another way, though...Cas might know a spell, or I can check the lore, see if we can figure something out.”

“Figure something out for what?” comes a voice, and Crowley turns to see Castiel enter the library, a small pile of books in hand. “Did you need me for something?”

“Crowley wants to talk to Rowena,” Sam explains, “ideally in person, but—”

“—but the only way to do that without Rowena taking a host,” Castiel finishes, “is for you,” he nods at Crowley, “to go to Hell. I understand.” He sets his books down on the table, looking thoughtful. “There may be a way,” he says after a moment, “although it’s not without risk, and we’ll have to check that we have all of the necessary ingredients. I can supply the angelic grace.” He looks over at Sam. “How much blood can you spare?”

Sam’s eyes widen; he glances from Castiel to Crowley and back again. “I mean—”

“Oh for the love of—do you two even _hear_ yourselves?” Crowley demands; dear God, he’s always thought of Dean as the one lacking impulse control, but apparently it’s just a household prerequisite. “We’ll find another way, one that _doesn’t_ involve either of your life forces!”

They all fall silent, each ostensibly pondering alternate plans, when suddenly, Sam gets a look that suggests he has an idea. “Jack.”

“Yes?” says Jack brightly, startling Sam as he appears out of thin air; he sees Castiel and Crowley and furrows his brow. “Are we having a family meeting? Shouldn’t we wait till Dean gets back from walking Miracle?”

Sam chuckles. “No, we’re not having a family meeting. I wanted to ask, do you think you could make body for Rowena, so she can visit us here at the Bunker?”

“Oh.” Jack considers a moment, then smiles. “Sure, I can do that. When does she want it?”

*****

One week later, they’re all in the kitchen having breakfast, and Crowley is doing what he considers to be an admirable job at hiding his nerves.

That is, until Dean abruptly calls him out on it.

“You sure you don’t want backup?” Dean asks, giving Crowley his best no-nonsense look from the other side of the table. “’Cause I mean it, man: you don’t gotta deal with this on your own.”

“We could wait in the hallway,” Sam offers from the next seat over, “and only come in if things get out of hand.”

Next to Crowley, Castiel nods. “And we could have a code word of some kind, a way for you to let us know you’d like assistance.”

“Oh, like _Poughkeepsie!”_ Jack says around a mouthful of cereal. “I’ve never gotten to use that one before.”

And the thing is, Crowley can tell they mean it; a word from him, and he’ll have two hunters, an angel, and God himself there to support him. The thought makes him feel warm in a way he still isn’t used to, so he fumbles out a half-hearted remark about how they’re all impossible and insists they leave the Bunker as planned.

Over by the stove, Juliet looks up from where she’s lying curled around Miracle and lets out a miffed sort of bark; Crowley shoots her a look, and with a low growl of displeasure, she lowers her head.

The hellhound had shown up out of the blue four days ago, howling insistently at the Bunker door. A quick call from Sam to Rowena had revealed that Rowena knew nothing about it—apparently, Juliet hadn’t been seen in Hell since Crowley’s death and was presumed to have run off. It had taken Crowley quite a bit of persuading to convince Sam and Dean to let her in, but eventually, they’d settled on a few ground rules that everyone could live with: Jack would make Juliet visible to everyone, not just Crowley; Crowley was to keep Juliet either with him or in his room at all times; and Juliet not to go near Eileen unless or until Eileen said otherwise. Crowley had readily agreed to each one; after all, a few simple rules were a small price to pay in exchange for having his beloved hellhound back at his side.

After breakfast, Crowley takes Juliet to his room and orders her to stay, sighing when the hound gazes reproachfully back at him. “Don’t worry, girl,” he assures her, scratching just behind Juliet’s ear in the place he knows she really likes. “Papa will be just fine.”

Ten minutes later, as Crowley stands in the library and awaits his mother, he’s still repeating that last bit to himself when Rowena appears in the doorway. She halts as Crowley catches sight of her, and for a long moment, they just stare at each other. Eventually, Crowley clears his throat.

“Mother,” he says, stiffly. “You’re looking well, for a dead woman.”

Rowena smiles. “Yes, well,” she says, raising a hand to examine it in the light, “let it never be said there aren’t certain benefits to being a surrogate aunt to the new God.” She lowers her hand, and her smile turns more tentative. “You’re looking well yourself. It’s good to see you, in the flesh.” 

Crowley doesn’t smile back. “You said you wanted to explain, so now’s your chance.” He narrows his eyes. “Your _last_ chance. If I were you, I’d choose my next words very carefully. In fact,” he adds, remembering his own apology to Eileen, “unless the first two are _I’m sorry_ , then you needn’t bother with the rest.”

Rowena hesitates, biting her lip, and just as Crowley is about to tell her to leave and not come back, she actually says it: "I'm...sorry."

Time itself seems to stop. It’s as though the words have turned Crowley to stone; he'd half-expected her to refuse outright. “For?” he manages, after a moment.

Rowena's gaze is pained and earnest. “For everything. For abandoning you when you were a child. For using you, for manipulating you, for...for Gavin.” A single tear falls down her face. “He was my grandson, and I let him die because I knew it would hurt you. It was wrong, and...and I’m sorry.”

Crowley feels like he’s swallowed glass. He closes his eyes and thinks back to the last time he saw Gavin, when Gavin decided to return to the past and embark on a doomed voyage in order to save the soul of his beloved. Crowley sees himself reaching for Gavin, determined to whisk him away; he sees himself being frozen in place by Rowena’s spell, sees Gavin’s look of sad resolve as he says goodbye.

_I’m sorry, Father..._

More than anything, Crowley wants to be able to go back, to forgo his damnable pride and say that no, _he’s_ sorry, because for all he’d hated his mother, for all he’d sworn to himself that he’d be better than her, he hadn’t been. Instead, he’d been a bitter, abusive arse who’d made Gavin’s life hell for as long as he was alive. By all accounts, Gavin should have followed in Crowley’s footsteps and become a hardened, miserable drunk, only...only he _hadn’t_... 

Because somehow, inexplicably, Gavin MacLeod had been decent. He’d met a girl and fallen in love, and when it became clear to him that staying in the present meant his love would be damned and that innocent people would die, Gavin hadn’t hesitated. He’d gone back, knowing full well what it would mean, because it had been the right thing to do. Gavin had a choice, and he'd chosen to be good.

_We can be more than the people we come from..._ Gavin had been better than him. Maybe it’s not too late for Crowley to be better than himself. 

He opens his eyes. Rowena is staring at him from near the doorway, face a mess of tears, and for the first time, Crowley thinks that maybe, just maybe, he’s not the only one who wants to be better, not the only one who needs to be redeemed. 

“Did you mean it?” he asks, quietly. “When you said you’d missed me?”

“Aye,” Rowena rasps, voice barely more than a whisper. “When Sam and Dean...when they told me you’d...died…All I could think was that I’d rather have you alive, even if you hated me. I don’t need you to love me; I know I haven’t earned that. I just...” She keeps her eyes on Crowley’s face and takes a hesitant step towards him. “I just want to be a part of your life.”

“Why?” demands Crowley, and even he can hear the way his voice breaks on the word. “Damn it, Mother, why? Why, after a lifetime of not being there, do you want to be there now? And _don’t_ say it’s because you love me,” he says sharply as she opens her mouth. “Just...don’t. Pick a different reason, one I can actually believe. You say you want to be in my life, but why should I let you? Why do you _deserve_ to be?”

Several seconds go by in silence; then—

“I...I don’t,” Rowena murmurs, eyes widening as she speaks words that are equal parts admission and realization. “I _don’t_ deserve it, I—” She hangs her head and lets out a shuddering sob. “I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know how to do this right; I wish I did, but I don’t! I thought loving you made me weak, but I was wrong; I always have been. You deserved better from this world.” She raises her eyes. “You deserved better from _me,_ and...and I don’t know how to love you the way you deserve, but Fer—but Crowley, if you’ll let me, I’d like to try.”

If he’ll let her...Crowley feels himself sway. It’s a dizzying notion, letting his mother in. They’ve hated each other for centuries; it’s been the one constant in Crowley’s life, a perverse and painful North Star that, in one way or another, has guided every major decision he’s ever made and shaped the very core of who he is. Hating and expecting to be hated back, by his mother, by everyone—for his entire life, it’s been how he’s survived, but... 

But that isn’t true anymore. Crowley has a new life now, one with people who care about him, people who had been willing to stand in this room beside him if he'd asked it of them. The idea of not hating Rowena, of her not hating him...it’s strange and uncomfortable and borderline frightening, but it’s also...possible, realizes Crowley, in a way that it’s never felt before. Because whatever happens with Rowena, Crowley knows he’ll survive it. And he won’t have to do it alone.

Crowley draws himself up to full height. “I don’t know how to believe you,” he says. “Not right now, at any rate, but…” He hesitates, then takes a careful step forward. “I’m willing to...entertain the possibility that someday, I might.”

Rowena’s face is a study in barely contained hope. “Then...you mean…?”

“I’ve decided I’m going to let you try, but on _my_ terms, with boundaries.” Crowley looks her square in the eye. “And if you give me a reason, _any reason,_ to regret that decision, then I promise you now that it will be the last chance I ever give you. Have I made myself clear?”

Rowena regards him carefully, no doubt sensing the absolute certainty of the words, and nods. “Aye. I understand. So.” She gives him a tentative smile. “What are your terms? And shall we have them in writing, to make it official?”

Her tone is light, playful, almost, but her eyes are serious, and Crowley gets the sense that the question is a sincere one. Honestly, it’s probably not a bad idea, writing it all down, especially since everything about this is uncharted territory for them. He’s never got this far with his mother, and he has no idea how to best move forward...but he knows he doesn’t have to figure _that_ out alone, either.

“I’ll get back to you,” Crowley says at last. “In a few days, perhaps, after I’ve thought about it, talked about it...with my family.”

And for the first time in his life, the word doesn’t hurt when he says it.


	5. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is an epilogue set a few months after the events of the previous chapter.

It’s Dean who suggests they all go to the beach.

“Just think about it,” Dean says over pancakes one morning, gazing dreamily off into space. “Sand between our toes, cooler full of Margiekugels, matching Hawaiian shirts...”

Crowley balks at the last bit; he’s seen the shirts Dean has in mind, and there is absolutely no way in Heaven or Hell he’ll ever be caught _dead_ in—

“We’re all getting matching shirts?” Jack asks, beaming.

_Bollocks…_

A few days later, Crowley sits on a California beach at sunset, reluctantly dressed in what can only be described as a vibrant, floral nightmare. He watches with a sort of begrudging fondness as Jack, Sam, and Eileen, all in similar shirts, play fetch with Miracle and Juliet down in the surf, and if Crowley doesn't actually hate his current attire as much as he pretends to, that's nobody's business but his own. He takes a sip of his cocktail—Sex on the Beach, and a damned good one at that—and glances over to where Dean is humming Queen and flipping burgers over a charcoal grill. "Remind me to take Jack shopping when we get back,” he says. “I’ve given up on you and Moose, but perhaps there’s still time to save the next generation from a closet full of fashion sins.”

Dean snorts. “Dude, whatever. Besides, the kid’s God now: the hell’s it matter what he wears?”

“That is precisely _why_ it matters,” counters Crowley, exasperated. He looks past Dean at Castiel, who’s chopping tomatoes at a nearby picnic table. “You there, Feathers, back me up! Where’s your sense of fatherly pride?”

“I’m proud of Jack regardless of what he wears,” Castiel says without looking up from his work, and Crowley’s just about to argue the point further when Castiel adds, “Although if you’re offering to help ensure he doesn’t look like a lumberjack, I’m not opposed.”

Dean shoots Castiel a look of abject betrayal. “Hey! At least I don’t walk around lookin’ like a holy tax accountant.”

“I love you too,” says Castiel mildly, smiling as Dean’s frown melts into a blushing pout, and Crowley gleefully registers the argument in his favor.

_Savile Row, here we come,_ he thinks, smirking and taking another sip of his drink. He wonders idly how much convincing it would take to get Sam, Dean, and Castiel to accompany him and Jack on their shopping excursion. They could make a day of it, hit up all the best shops and end by taking in a show. Eileen, of course, would be welcome to join, and Crowley thinks that perhaps he’ll even invite Rowena...perhaps. If she asks very, very nicely.

For now, he leans back in his chair, watching contentedly as Jack races the dogs back from the shoreline, Sam and Eileen trailing behind while closer by, Castiel joins Dean at the grill and the two start plating food. There will be time to sort out the details later; today, Crowley’s on holiday, with his family. And there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read, kudo'd, bookmarked, commented on, and otherwise shown interest and support for this story: it's been wonderful to see people be so eager for Crowley get the love and closure he always deserved. I have an idea for a sequel of sorts set in the same universe, one that will feature multiple POVs (of which Crowley will of course be one) and a few additional characters who deserved better, but it's still in the very early conceptual stages, and if I do decide to move forward, it will likely be several months (possibly longer) before it would be ready to post. Still, I wanted to mention it in case anyone is interested, in which case you can let me know in a comment, and if/when the fic does go up, I can reply to your comment and let you know; alternatively, you can come follow me on [tumblr](https://petrichoravellichor.tumblr.com/), in which case I'll post an announcement there. :)
> 
> In the meantime, whether you're reading this the day it was completed or ten years into the future, know that any kind words you might have about this fic would absolutely make my day and that I would genuinely love to hear from you. Take care, all! 💙


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